


Christmas 1999

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the gang spent Christmas, in L.A. and in Sunnydale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas 1999

After the fourth time that Wesley asked, casually, very deliberately casually, what plans Angel and Cordelia had for the holidays, Cordy took matters into her own hands.

"Angel," she said, "I don't think he has anywhere else to go."

"Well." Angel looked uncomfortable. "Do you want to take him back to Sunnydale and have dinner with your parents?"

"Do I --? No! Ewww! Do you know what they'd think if I brought a guy home for Christmas?"

Angel looked blank.

"That we were dating!" said Cordy. "Seriously dating!"

Now Angel looked confused. "Well, didn't you want to go out with Wesley last spring?"

"No!" she said. "OK, yes. But it was temporary insanity brought on by those suits he used to wear. I wonder what happened to those suits."

Angel shrugged. "Maybe he sold them to buy his motorcycle." He frowned and asked, "So if you don't want to take Wesley to your parents. . ."

"Angel, I don't even want to go to my parents'. My dad's gonna be in a bad mood because of the whole house arrest thing, my mom has barely come downstairs since the Bush administration, and they're just gonna be moody because they can't afford to give me stuff – and I'll be moody because I can't afford stuff, and – I know!" she said, trying to look as though she had just come up with the idea. "Why don't you and me and Wesley have Christmas here?"

Angel rubbed his forehead and tried not to look at her. "Cordy, I haven't really done Christmas since – well, I was human. Last year, I was being tortured by the ghosts of my victims, and the year before I was. . ."

"Evil?" she said.

"No, just – occupied."

"With the brooding," said Cordy. "Tell me, how'd that work out for you?" When he didn't answer, she said, "Christmas Eve, my place, 4 o'clock."

Wesley pushed his way through the door with his arms full of bags. "First footing," he cried.

Cordy stared, "Huh?"

"I'm the first one here." He flushed a little.

"It's a thing they say in England," Angel explained, stepping up behind Wes. "Only, sorry, you're not."

Cordy shrugged and said, "He's stealthy. It happens to everybody."

"Oh," said Wesley and then, as the grocery bags floated from his hands, he jumped, scrambled to his pockets, and produced a cross.

"Calm down," said Cordy. "It's just phantom Dennis. And he's HELPING."

Wesley replaced the cross and smoothed his shirt front. "Well," he said, "I managed to find both a mince pie and a plum pudding.

"What?" Cordy said. "Just for you and me?"

Angel coughed. "I could have some pie too. Besides, it would be nice to have some around. Eat it every day between now and twelfth night. And, and. . ." He lifted a pie out of Wes's bag. "Don't forget, we'll need to make a wish on the first mince pie of the season and oh my God, Wesley! You found Christmas crackers."

"Crackers?" Cordelia wailed. "On top of pie?"

Angel lifted a tube covered in red crepe paper, grabbed both ends, and pulled them until it popped. Angel jumped to the floor and stood, triumphant, with a foil-wrapped candy. "Wesley, these are great! I haven't seen these since. . .Where'd you find them?"

"Made them, actually," he said. "It's actually quite simple, you just take the cardboard roll. . ."

Cordy cleared her throat. "So I guess you Island Geek boys aren't up for just getting high and watching Snoopy?"

They stared. After a moment, Wesley said, "Good God, you are the perfect woman."

She smiled. "That's my boys. Then when we're really lit, we can crank call Xander Harris and that crazy girl who tried to kill me in an alternate dimension."

Wesley frowned. "I don't really know them that well, but. . .do you have Rupert Giles' number?

Angel laughed. "Yeah, that sounds OK. And maybe we could call. . ." Simultaneously, Wesley and Cordelia said, "NOT BUFFY," then looked at each other and smiled.

Angel slumped. "Do you guys not have any Christmas spirit?"

Again, together they said, "No."

"All right." Angel shrugged, then brightened. "So how about some pie?"

*

Anya draped the sleeping bag around her shoulders and snuggled close to Xander. "I must tell you, that while I find this contemporary holiday custom to be quite pleasant, relaxing, and potentially erotic –" She paused and looked around the backyard. "It must be quite uncomfortable for those young people who inhabit a less temperate climate than Southern California."

From inside the house, the echo of shattering glass reached them. "Goddamit Rory, why don't you watch where you put the goddamn eggnog? No, I don't care what was in the stinking fruitcake."

Xander sighed and inched closer to his girlfriend. He looked into her eyes and contemplated their beauty. No, it wasn't fair to lie to such a trusting, loving soul. Besides, he wasn't entirely certain that she had gotten away from the habit of eviscerating males that she suspected of betrayal. "Anya," he said. "I have a confession. There is no such Christmas tradition as the youngest member of the household avoiding the festivities and sleeping in the backyard. I kind of made that one up myself."

Anya's brow furrowed, and Xander braced himself in the expectation that she might decide to smack him. Then another crash sounded from inside, and Anya did something unexpected. She took his hand, moved closer, and kissed him softly on the chin. "It's all right," she mumbled. "Let me tell you, Olaf's family was no fun around the solstice festival. I kind of wish we'd had a tradition like this." Then she moved to kiss him on the mouth, and he thought, "Yes, this. . .this is the true meaning of Christmas. . . ." And just when their lips were starting to meet. . .

"Lavell! Lavell! Get the damn phone, it's one of your stupid girlfriends."

The portable phone came sailing out the door and landed on the lawn beside Anya.

"Girlfriends?" she snapped, picked up the handset, and listened for a moment. "No!" she said. "What would Prince Albert be doing in a can?. . .I don't know, I'll check." She turned to him. "Is the refrigerator running?"

Xander groaned and said, "I'll take that." Into the receiver he shouted: "Willow! Buffy! This isn't a good time!"

On the other end, he heard silence, and then the unmistakable sound of Cordelia Chase in a high dudgeon. "Willow? Buffy? Thanks for forgetting that I exist, once again."

In the background, he heard a voice that sounded like Angel: "Buffy? Is Buffy there?"

Cordelia's voice chimed in with another male voice: "NO BUFFY!" And then the man's voice continued, in a clipped British accent Xander knew too well. "Whatis Prince Albert in a can, anyway? Does anybody know?"

Xander almost choked. "Is WESLEY there?"

Cordelia's tone sweetened. "Yes. . . Wesley. Wesley came to spend Christmas with me in Los Angeles. We'd invite you, only the car wouldn't make it this far, would it?"

"I. . .I. . ." Xander stammered, knowing the perfect comeback was lying in his subconscious. Only why could Cordy still do this to him? Hearing giggles in the background, he demanded, "Cordy, are you HIGH?" More giggles. Three sets of giggles. "Are ALL of you high?"

Angel's voice came on the line. "We're watching Snoopy. He can dance."

Xander couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make him feel like Giles.

Suddenly, Anya ripped the phone from his hand. "Xander doesn't want to talk to any of you now! We are having a lovely holiday in his backyard! And as soon as I hang up, we will have sexual intercourse! At least twice!" She threw down the phone.

Xander stared at her, and she kissed him, and he thought: "BEST – CHRISTMAS – EVER!"

*

Cordelia came back into the living room, rubbing her hands together in an efficient, Mary Poppins-ish manner. "Angel is nestled, all snug in my bed." She looked down at where Wesley sprawled over her sofa. "I guess you and me get the couch and the floor."

Wesley started to push himself to his feet. "No no, I can get myself home." He immediately sunk down again. "Oh, nice couch." He rolled his shoulders back into the upholstery and closed his eyes. "Pretty couch. It turns out, I'm quite happy here." He squinted up at her. "Angel seemed happy. Not i too /i happy?"

She shook her head and sank into the cushion beside him. "He's just right. Exactly enough paranoia to counteract the buzz. Now if somebody ever gave him some ecstasy." When Wesley looked up at her, hopeful, she said. "No, I don't have any, and you are setting. . ." She tapped her fingers lightly on the side of his face to emphasize each word. ". . . a very bad example for the little slayerlings." She bent down to examine his cheek. "Do you have dimples? Why did you never tell me you had dimples?"

"They're new," he said solemnly. "I got them just for you. I heard you liked them." They both dissolved into giggles.

Then her mouth lowered just a little, and his rose, and neither could say exactly who started it, but their lips were meeting again, and this time it was soft and warm, teasing and ticklish, and they were both a little sorry when Cordelia's head rose and his sank, and she said, "Didn't we both decide -- mutually decide with the mutuality -- not to take things in this direction?"

"Right," he said softly. "You're absolutely right." She raised her head, then slouched back on the cushion. Wesley sat up, rolled his shoulders around, pressed a hand to his temples, and then sunk down into the sofa beside her, leaving a tasteful space between their shoulders. Then he took a long look at her, pressed his lips together, and said, "Remind me, why was that again?"

"Well, remember," she said, "How you're really old, and a bad kisser?"

"Hold on!" Wesley yelped. "I'm sure it had a little to do with your charming personality, as well."

Cordelia held his gaze for a moment, then started laughing again.

"Oh, that was meant to be a joke?" He glared at her, then pronounced, "Hilarious." Then they both laughed softly, until Cordelia put a hand over his.

"You've done this before," she asked him, "Right?"

"Oh yes," he said. "I mean, sort of. Once. There was a girl in Oxford and. . .well, honestly, I'm not sure exactly what it was we did, but that's a night I'll never forget."

"Hey! Eww! TMI!" Cordy held up a hand. "I was talking about drugs."

"I was too." Wes frowned and looked at her. "What did you think I meant?"

Cordy shook her head and said, hastily. "Never mind. I have thought about this a lot. And the two of us definitely make more sense as friends."

"Right," he nodded, "Friends," then suddenly turned a serious eye on her. "Do you really," he began timidly, then stammered, "Do you really think we're friends?" Then he looked away, slammed his head back onto the cushion and said to the ceiling, "No, of course, that's just the thing women say to men they don't care to kiss." He groaned. "This conversation is totally harshing my melon."

"Hey!" Cordy punched his shoulder so that he had to look at her. "First thing, buck up. I'm sure you have a lot of friends."

"You mean the ones who wouldn't fly me back to England, or the ones who wouldn't have me for Christmas?" He shook his head. "It's so easy for you. Miss Popularity. You wouldn't understand."

"Yes," she said, "I'm spending Christmas with a vampire and fired watcher, and crank calling my exes and their slutty girlfriends, because I'm busting out with the popular kids wanting to hang with me." She leveled her gaze and pointed at him. "So don't try to tell me who my friends are. You are one, buddy, whether you like it or not. You've always been nice to me, you've actually listened to my opinions about stuff. You're practically the only person in Sunnydale who paid more attention to me than to Buffy. Of course," she mused. "It was part of your job to pay attention to Buffy, so maybe that has something to do with you getting fired? If you look at it that way, it's almost like you sacrificed your sacred duty for the sake of our friendship."

"Right --" said Wesley. "If you look at it in a certain light. And you squint. And you're slightly insane." He smiled and patted her shoulder. "All right then, for the sake of your friendship? I'll take it. Really, knowing that you think of that way is much better than just kissing you."

Cordelia nodded. "Uh-huh." Then she scowled. "Better than --? Wait a minute." She grabbed his chin, leaned in, and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Their lips touched and their tongues pushed against each other, and Cordy thought it was like kissing her brother if she'd had one and Wesley thought it was a little like sucking on a really slimy vacuum tube. They both pulled out of it at once. "This still isn't working," she said.

He shook his head, and admitted, "Me neither. And this at a moment --" He pointed at her stereo, which had been playing the song i Satellite /i on repeat for the past forty minutes. "When I'm altered enough to think the Dave Matthews Band might have been a good idea."

"Maybe it's a sense of smell thing? You know, like with dogs?" Wesley started to sniff his shirt collar and she said, "Not that you smell bad. Actually, kind of a . . ." she sniffed, "Mincemeat and cannabis thing going. It ought to be up my alley, but," she shrugged, "It's the way it goes sometimes."

"I think you're very pretty," he sighed.

"Oh, yeah," she said, "Me, you too. Just. . ." She frowned. "What's wrong with the Dave Matthews Band?"

"Other than everything?"

"Excuse me, Mr. 'Do you have any Cat Stevens.'?"

"The man was a genius. A real poet. Not that I would expect an American to understand." Now he frowned. "Did you just call me pretty?"

"It's the dimples," she answered. Pinching his cheek, whispered in his ear, "Do you realize you accused me of harshing your melon?"

"What? When?"

"Just now."

"I did not."

"Whatever. Reminds me though. I have some canteloupe in the fridge."

"Oh," he said, "For some reason, that sounds really good right now. Also chocolate."

"Pickles."

"Kippers."

"What?"

"Sardines?"

"What???"

"Let's just raid the fridge, then," he suggested.

"Right," she said, "Any minute. Let us never speak of this night again."

"Any minute," he said. But within that minute, they settled against each other on Cordelia's sofa, breathing slowly and contented in sleep.

And they never spoke of it again.


End file.
